


five and a half times dead

by agentgalahad



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M, Swearing, feels goddamnit, harry keeps getting everyone's hopes up, harry keeps popping up like a whack a mole, sad egg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7170455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentgalahad/pseuds/agentgalahad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Next one is 5710, Eggsy,” Merlin says. His gun is solid and comforting in his grip as Eggsy punches in the passcode, the unpleasant <em>bzzt</em> of the cell unlocking causing the hairs on his neck to stand on end. He pushes the heavy steel door open.<br/></p>
<p> </p>
<p>And his heart stops.<br/></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sitting in a tall-backed armchair, with his back to Eggsy, is Harry Hart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five and a half times dead

“Next one is 5710, Eggsy,” Merlin says. His gun is solid and comforting in his grip as Eggsy punches in the passcode, the unpleasant _bzzt_ of the cell unlocking causing the hairs on his neck to stand on end. He pushes the heavy steel door open.

And his heart stops.

Sitting in a tall-backed armchair, with his back to Eggsy, is Harry Hart.

“Eggsy-” Merlin warns.

But Eggsy steps forward anyway, at a loss for words. No cunning remarks, no charming wit.

The dark-haired man startles, getting to his feet, his bespoke suit looking-

Not right.

Something is not quite right, the height is wrong, the suit is charcoal grey, not navy, it should be navy-

The man turns around, without Harry’s grace, without Harry’s elegance and poise.

Eggsy’s stomach drops as he takes in the man’s face, denial ripping away at his mind, a blaring horn shrieking away in his mind mercilessly.

It is not Harry.

Eggsy only has the energy to nod vaguely at the stranger, some CEO, Merlin murmurs to him, of an important, multinational agrochemical and agricultural corporation that he’s never heard of before. He feels a bit weak around the knees, but without missing a beat, he gestures towards the bright, white-light corridor where Roxy waits with a small group of other kidnap victims, all in various states of distress.

_Harry’s dead,_ Eggsy reminds himself harshly as the CEO skitters out. _And he ain’t coming back._

 

* * *

 

The world is a right mess after V-Day. So many dead people. It isn’t really Kingsman’s problem, though, so other than occasional back-up, Lancelot and Eggsy don’t really witness or are involved with the rebuilding of civilization. Eggsy’s mum and baby sister get recovered and relocated to a Kingsman safehouse.

Roxy’s got two siblings, two years younger. Wylan and Wyatt. Identical twin brothers. Eggsy has a hell of a time telling them apart, and after they begin training at Kingsman, they enjoy pulling shit on Eggsy, just to fuck with him and keep him on his toes. Eggsy adores them.

Somehow, Kingsman manages to scrape by with only the loss of one agent, whose head got blown to smithereens. Bors, who was apparently as close to a lackey of Arthur’s that one could be. _Good riddance_ , Merlin mutters savagely upon receiving the news.

All the agents congregate at UK HQ, in the flesh, a week after V-Day to discuss ‘matters’, as Merlin puts it (in truth, Merlin means to evaluate all the agents both mentally and physically and pick out any liabilities, though luckily he finds none as the days pass), and other than Bors, there is only one knight missing.

They drink in toast to Harry Hart, and promptly afterward, nominate Eggsy for Galahad’s mantle.

As if his heart weren’t being shredded into tiny little fucking pieces, he accepts with a big grin and a joking flick of Merlin’s ear, which he deeply regrets when he’s sent on his next mission, out in fucking Nunavut on a fucking island in the middle of the north pole or something. Which is at the arse-end of the universe. And so, so fucking cold.

After a good deal of bluntness about the possible breach of secrecy and consequent potential of Kingsman’s annihilation, they are assigned tasks on top of their missions by Merlin, who has taken it upon himself to play Arthur until Kingsman can get itself sorted.

One of the tasks, out of respect, is to retrieve Harry’s body.

Eggsy volunteers, without hesitation. As does Percival, who turns out to be Roxy’s uncle.

The meeting ends, and Roxy takes him out to the pub, where he gets drunk off his arse and Roxy has to manhandle him back to his temporary room at HQ.

Eggsy’s set to leave early the next morning. They get on a private plane, flown by a pilot by the name of Scorpio.

Kingsman is the UK branch and is made up of four different sectors, Eggsy learns from Percival on the plane after he inquires about the unfamiliar Scorpio’s status. There is the spy sector, obviously. And then there’s the tech department- and although they’re mostly based in the UK, the tech facilities belonging to Kingsman can be found all throughout Europe, especially in Germany- hence, the Berlin Department where Amelia works.

There’s the medical staff, who like to keep to themselves.

Additionally, Percival explains, there is a division devoted to the backings of Kingsman that is rarely acknowledged. Pilots, such as Scorpio. Drivers, and other minor agents, located all over the globe, always ready to ensure that the little cogs of a mission run smoothly. Others negotiate difficult situations, enlist the help of rich benefactors, and pick up the pieces of a mission’s aftermath.

“We’re no better than dogs, Galahad,” Percival tells him wisely. “We shit everywhere, and these precious people clean it up for us.”

And then there’s the whole other matter of Kingsman, on an international scale. According to Percival, there’s an organization, sister to theirs, called the Statesmen, based in the United States. In fact, there are many sister organizations to Kingsman, scattered around the world. Canada, Japan, Australia, Peru… the list goes on. There is an unspoken rule that the organizations are not to meet under any circumstance, unless in a state of crisis.

Eggsy wonders aloud how this is all pulled off. It sounds pretty fucking complicated to him, like some complex, choreographed dance where if one person fucks up, everyone is basically fucked. Percival doesn’t have an answer to this.

They land in Kentucky, and Eggsy is left wondering again- why hadn’t one of these so-called Statesmen spies been summoned to the church? Was it a move in Arthur’s elaborate plan to kill Harry off? And why had Eggsy been the only person in Valentine’s mountain retreat?

These Statesmen must be pretty fucking lazy and have a lot of sodding nerve.

A driver in a lime green cab picks them up, introducing himself as Osprey. He has an American accent, but when Eggsy purposely tries to mess with him by throwing Cockney slang at him, Osprey deftly replies to each comment in a flawless English accent, understanding every phrase- a skill that only comes from being a native. As Eggsy settles into his seat, thoroughly satisfied, he grows quiet at the thought of what is to come.

With the entire world in upheaval, and dead people like, fucking _everywhere,_ Eggsy isn’t surprised- but still relieved- when they arrive at the neighborhood where the hate church lies to find that the bodies are still stacked up, untouched, even after the few days that have already passed since global catastrophe. The dwindling number of authorities had more important hubs to deal with than this place.

Eggsy gags at the stench of rotting bodies as they step out of the cab. It’s a fucking shame that Valentine’s brainwaves didn’t affect the buggering flies. Eggsy thinks he could do with less insects at any time of the day.

With his stomach in his throat, he and Percival carefully pick their way towards the church. Osprey waits in the taxi, parked a block away.

The dark green roof of the church rises into view and the two spies approach the front of the wooden building cautiously. As they round the hedges growing at the corner, one thing becomes painfully evident.

Other than a small splatter of blood on the asphalt, there is not a body in sight. And certainly not the body of Harry Hart.

One glance between the two of them sends them breaking into a jog for the doors.

Inside, the bodies are placed nearly as exactly as Eggsy remembers from Harry’s final transmission. The fucker of a preacher or whatever he was is still kneeling on the wood-paneled floor, the spike Harry drove through his chin still present, a trail of brown blood dried on the surface.

It reeks, and the sight of all the bodies, mutilated as they are, cause Eggsy’s gut to twist, but he forces himself to stare at every face, at every person. Percival does the same. Together, they move through the church, a single unit, wordless and grim. They even lift a pew to examine the bodies trapped beneath.

None are Harry.

But then-

“Fuck,” Eggsy says.

There’s a body, lying face down, in a navy suit and Oxfords. Brown hair.

It's Harry. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Fuck,” Eggsy says again, and promptly vomits all over the floor. Tears are leaking from his eyes, and the bile fucking _burns-_

“Galahad,” Percival says quietly. Urgently.

“Sorry mate,” Eggsy managed to croak out before vomiting again. Funny, he had no trouble killing people last week, no trouble seeing people with their heads _kaboomed_ . But the sight of Harry- _his_ Harry- in real life, unmoving like that, the back of his head blown off…

“Galahad, come over here. You need to see this.”

Eggsy takes a deep breath through his mouth, and with his fingers covering his eyes, he creeps towards Percival.

Percival puts a hand on his shoulder. “Take a look, son.”

Eggsy pries his fingers open, only to swear loudly and look away. Percival has turned the body over.

“No, I can’t.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Galahad,” Percival exclaims. “You’ll like what you see, I promise.”

How the _fuck_ Percival could think that is so beyond Eggsy that he actually complies. With great apprehension, he forces his eyes upon Harry’s face.

Except it isn’t Harry.

The hair’s the same, the suit’s the same, and the glasses are the same, though one lense is shattered and the frame around it slightly dented but otherwise unharmed. There is no gunshot wound on the front of his face. But the face itself- the resemblance is obvious, but it’s not _exactly_ Harry. At first, Eggsy thinks that it’s just ‘cause Harry’s skin is rotting or something rank like that, but then, he takes a closer look.

There’s something ambiguously hazy about Harry’s features.

Swept up by pure whim, Eggsy swipes Harry’s tortoiseshell glasses off his- no, this impersonator’s- face.

To his absolute shock, Harry’s body seems to blur for a moment before morphing to reveal a different body- some middle-age man with a similar hairstyle and a paunch.

He whips around to Percival, just to confirm that what just happened actually _fucking happened_ and he isn’t just hallucinating or some shit like that.

Percival has a very pensive expression on his face.

And then they sprint around like madmen for four hours around the neighborhood, trying to find Harry’s real body. There was evidently a gunshot wound of some kind, there had to be- after all, they’d seen the blood on the pavement. And surely Valentine couldn’t have fucked up a shot _that_ badly? Harry, injured, must have dragged himself somewhere, but in his state, he couldn’t have gone that far.

Unsuccessful, they pile back into the taxi and drive to the nearest hospital. On the way, Percival explains.

“You haven’t forgotten the train test, I presume?” the man says.

Yeah, as fucking if.

“Do you recall your kidnapper? The waiter in the bar that drugged you and confronted you about Kingsman?” Percival continues. Eggsy nods. It wasn’t that long ago, after all. “After the train passed, who replaced him?”

“Harry,” Eggsy answers, suddenly breathless. He can see where this is going.

“Yes, for you it was Harry. For Lancelot, it was me, and for that wretched Charlie, it was the equally wretched Chester.”

Eggsy nods eagerly. “You was both holding the same knife.” He’d wondered about the knife.

“Bright young thing, you are. Yes. The kidnapper was but an illusion, a hologram projected over ourselves by these,” Percival says, tapping the corner of his Kingsman spectacles. “My guess is that our dear friend replaced himself and made his daring escape.”

“He couldn’t have gone far, though,” Eggsy chokes. “And we looked everywhere within a five-mile radius.” He’s getting anxious.

“That’s why we’re going to the hospital,” Percival soothes. Osprey grins at Eggsy through the rearview mirror and hits the gas.

Eggsy can’t help but run through all the possible scenarios in his mind.

_Took you long enough,_ Harry will remark with a little quirk of his lips. Or, _Eggsy, your tie is crooked._

And what will Eggsy himself do?

Punch him?

Kiss him?

Eggsy doesn’t realize just how hard he’s clenching his fists until he very nearly draws blood. Flexing his grip, he examines the crescent-shaped marks as he miserably attempts to calm himself.

When they arrive at the hospital, Eggsy is a bundle of nervous energy.

If Harry _is_ here…

The receptionist has dark, purplish circles beneath her pretty eyes. She looks utterly exhausted, but answers to their inquiries politely.

There is no one under their records with the name of Harry Hart, but Eggsy isn’t deterred. Harry probably checked in under a false name.

So they call up Merlin and Merlin informs them of all the fake names Harry has used in the past on missions, because surely he wouldn’t have checked in under a name that none of them would have been able to find him with.

The receptionist dutifully searches for each name, shaking her head as Eggsy parrots the names Merlin feeds to him.

And just as the hope is withering away in Eggsy’s soul, he chokes out the final name.

“Mr. Bertie Pickles.”

_Harry, you fucking twat. You better be here, you hear me?_ Eggsy thinks to himself, fingers drumming against the desk. A stoic Percival is as still as stone behind him.

Eggsy can hear his heart hammering away as the receptionist clacks away at her keyboard.

Her eyes skim the lists and suddenly, she lights up, and Eggsy almost collapses with relief, knees buckling slightly.

“Oh, yes, he’s on level- oh.”

Eggsy freezes. Dread crawls along his skin, sending prickles down his spine.

And when the receptionist opens her mouth to speak, wincing, Eggsy’s world shatters.

“I am so very sorry, sir. But he passed two days ago. Gunshot wound to the head.”

And the hope in Eggsy dies.

 

* * *

 

_Two days._

They missed him by two fucking days.

The plane ride home is silent.

There are so many dead bodies that the hospital has nowhere to keep them and so they burn them, and then they bury the ashes.

They have nothing left to bring back to England with them but the Kentucky dirt on their soles.

Eggsy is too numb to cry. He leans his head against the cold aeroplane window, watching his breath fog the glass. His throat is tight, and he wants to do something- anything- but he can’t find the will to. So he stares out the window without really seeing, feeling nothing but the cold glass against his temple until they touch down at HQ.

He doesn’t get up when the jet is lowered into the garage below the ground, or when Percival spares him a sad glance and leaves the craft himself. The pilot leaves soon after, clicking the lights off because he thinks that the two agents have already left.

He sits there for an hour. He sits there for so long that he can’t feel his arse anymore.

_You just stay right there._

_I'll sort this mess out when I get back._

Harry never came back and now he never will.

The tears finally come, and Eggsy slams his fist into the side of the jet.

“Sort this fucking mess out, then, you fucking bastard,” Eggsy shouts, his voice cracking. His sobs echo in the empty cabin, and he finds himself throwing a glass of brandy that Percival must have poured for him some time ago, without him noticing, across the cabin. The act does nothing to calm his frayed nerves and emotions.

Roxy eventually shows up like she always does, and drags him back into his room, like she always does, and thrusts some pyjamas at him and forces him into bed.

“It’ll get better,” she whispers as she smooths down a lock of his hair and wipes a tear from his cheek. Eggsy knows she won’t ever lie and tell him that ‘it’s okay’ or some shit like that because she knows just as well as him that it was not okay at all.

The next day, Merlin quietly informs him that they’ve already arranged Harry’s funeral. It’s scheduled for the afternoon, and since almost all the Kingsmen are here already, they’re going to have it on the grounds.

It isn’t raining. In fact, the sun is shining brilliantly, and there isn’t a single wisp of cloud visible in the azure expanse of sky stretching above their heads. Eggsy almost wishes it was raining, because the sunshine and the chirping birds are not at all suiting his depressed state.

JB sits obediently at his side as they watch Merlin lower a small chest into the ground. A casket would have been unnecessarily inconvenient, Merlin had said earlier, and Harry wouldn’t have wanted it.

Inside the box is a single, preserved butterfly.

Nearly all of the agents get up to say something or another. When it comes to Eggsy, he has a hard time just getting to his feet. He lumbers towards the little box.

And stares into the horizon.

He squints.

There is a little figure, walking towards them. The figure wears a great black coat. The sunlight glints off of his chocolate-brown hair. His polished Oxfords gleam as he strides across the grass, smirking at their floored expressions.

Only Harry Hart would show up at his own funeral.

Harry tips his head in question as he takes in the little box. Crouching, he daintily picks it up and removes the framed butterfly, putting it into his pocket.

“I’ll add that to the collection,” he says to Eggsy with a wink and hands the box back to Merlin. “No need for that just yet, old chap,” Harry says in that warm, deep voice.

And then he pulls Eggsy into a tight embrace and dips him down with a startled yelp from the boy, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

“Eggsy,” a voice says. Merlin. _Sod off,_ Eggsy thinks, lost in the kiss. “Eggsy!” Again, this time accompanied by a hard shake.

And then Eggsy falls from the sky, landing onto the hard ground and back into himself.

He is still staring into the horizon.

And Harry is all but an illusion.

A sharp exhale of air rushes out of Eggsy, and it is all he can do to tear away from the heavy gazes of the other Kingsman and _flee._

 

* * *

 

Venice is all bright colours and noisy tourists on an early May afternoon. Couples hold hands and amble down the winding _callis-_ the little streets criss-crossing the small city.

Surprisingly, Eggsy notes as he dons a large sunhat and shades as a disguise, there isn’t as much water as he expected. There are a few main canals, and yes, gondolas, but they’re mainly for the tourists. There are a handful of very large waterways, and bordering those waterways are dozens of restaurants, shops, and boutiques.

A whole year has passed since Harry’s death, and Eggsy takes all the missions that Merlin will allow him to. He’s doing fantastically, and his success rate is sky-high. The danger keeps thoughts of Harry at bay, but Eggsy doesn’t think he’ll ever really get over the man’s death.

He can’t help but marvel at the sights as he passes by a little store filled with glass baubles and figurines. He can definitely see how people would think it’s romantic- and he can’t help but imagine Harry walking beside him, pointing out the beautiful architecture and the significance of the intimidating statues scattered about. As he ducks into a shop filled to the brim with masks, he can imagine forcing Harry to try them on with him, there hands linked together, laughing and flirting and smiling…

Eggsy shakes himself, scowling. _Focus,_ he commands himself. This is a serious mission, and he doesn’t have the luxury of daydreaming and allowing his thoughts to drift away.

“St. Mark’s Square, Galahad,” Merlin mutters.

“Eleven minutes eta,” Minerva adds. She’s an additional handler that Eggsy’s had on four occasions so far, and he’s glad to say that he likes her very much.

“The mark is coming up behind you,” Merlin adds urgently.

Eggsy hums affirmatively, detouring into another one of the frequent glass shops. “Anyone want a souvenir or summit?” he mumbles, flashing a brilliant grin at the shop-owner who greets him.

“Can I have one of those tiny goldfish things?” Minerva pipes up. “The Murano something or another.”

“Sure thing. Merlin?”

“I’m alright, Galahad,” Merlin grumbles, amused.

“Nah, bruv. I’ll get you one of them perfume spritz thingies. Or a necklace?”

“Lord have mercy,” Merlin grouses. “Fine, a shot glass, then.”

“Got it.”

“Galahad, the mark’s passed. Clear,” Minerva says. Eggsy makes his purchases hurriedly, and throwing a _grazie_ over his shoulder, he darts back into the streets.

It takes Eggsy a moment to find the mark in the hustle and bustle of the crowds. But finally, he spots a telling fedora and weaves closer to the man. He trails him for some time, until Merlin suddenly curses.

“You’ve got company, Galahad. Don’t think they’ve noticed you yet, but there are five armed men and three women about forty metres back.”

Eggsy slows down. He doesn’t think he looks too conspicuous. Sunhat, sunglasses, t-shirt and shorts. A typical tourist. He pauses and buys a selfie-stick just for good measure and starts taking an absurd, obnoxious amount of photos of himself, standing in front of an enormous church. It’s the perfect cover, and not a half minute later, his glasses pinpoint the newcomers. He takes careful note of their appearances. His Kingsman specs trace the lines of their weapons, hidden in their jackets. Mostly guns, and a few knives. They don’t even spare him a glance.

“I’m rerouting you on a faster path,” Minerva says. “It’ll take you through some smaller alleyways, but we’ll shave off a few minutes.”

They proceed, and after about six minutes at a brisk jog, he arrives in a vast, open square.

Piazza San Marco.

There are pigeons. Everywhere. Literally.

Eggsy is so, so tempted to just…

_Ah, fuck it,_ he thinks.

He sprints for a large cluster of pigeons, cackling with delight as they let out alarmed _coo-squawks_ and take to the air. It’s pretty fucking magnificent.

“Galahad, the restaurant on your left, if you will,” Merlin says, and Eggsy can practically hear the self-control that Merlin’s demonstrating on the other end in an attempt to not let out an exasperated sigh.

It's just starting to lightly drizzle. As he strolls through the piazza, his heart stutters and his train of thought screeches to a halt.

Just ahead of him, a large black umbrella has been put up to the rain. Even from here, he can see the unique sheen and shape of the handle.

And beneath the cover of the umbrella is a tall man with dark hair.

Eggsy's feet are flying before he even realizes that he’s moved.

He can see it in his mind perfectly. Grinning from ear to ear, his heartbeat thundering away in his chest with anticipation, he puts a hand on the man’s arm. And- oh, god. The man turns around, and chocolate eyes, so warm and wonderful that Eggsy is nearly knocked off his feet.

And then Harry's face will break into the fondest smile, his eyes crinkling as he takes Eggsy in before enveloping him tightly. And as the drizzle turns into a heavy sheet of rain, they'll walk together, side by side, with Eggsy pressed as close to Harry as possible, theirs fingers perfectly interlocked as they talk about _everything_ and Harry will tell Eggsy how proud he is of him, and Eggsy will tell Harry how much he's missed him, and then, under a grey sky and beneath the safety and shelter of the umbrella and Harry's arms, they'll kiss.

“Galahad, what are you-” Merlin interrupts, alarmed.

But Eggsy ignores him, craning his neck to see over the crowd. He's lost sight of the umbrella, _shit shit shit_ -

But then it reappears and Eggsy’s heart leaps as he leans forward and-

_What the fuck?_

The man beneath the umbrella is blond, with a haircut shaved close to his scalp. A pretty brunette in a windbreaker clutches his arm as he laughs at something she says. No, no, _fuck,_ he was so sure that the man had had dark hair, and had been alone, no-

Eggsy desperately whips back around, looking for another umbrella-

But the umbrella the blond man is holding is definitely the one he’d seen from far away. And it looks fucking _exactly_ how a Kingsman umbrella looks like- but it can't be, not if it belongs to some random civilian.

“Galahad, get a grip,” Merlin hisses into his ear.

Eggsy follows Merlin’s orders in a daze, the disappointment a bitter ache in his chest and a sour taste in his tongue.

He’s going out of his mind.

Maybe he really does need those therapy sessions Roxy suggested.

He needs to change. His suit is carefully folded in a specially designed case Merlin invented that compresses the fabric and also doubles as a hot iron.

He snaps back into focus. This is a high-risk mission, and without his wits about him, there is a very real possibility of death. Drugs. Drugs were so fucking common these days. But this drug in particular… if he didn’t get his hands on it and back to Kingsman to destroy, some pretty fucked up things were going to happen.

Eggsy rushes into the men’s loo and strips off his disguises, leaving the sunhat on the counter for some lucky person to claim. He’s about to ditch the selfie-stick as well when he hesitates. He ends up stuffing it back into the little briefcase once he’s finished ironing the creases in his suit and shirt.

Horn-rimmed, tortoiseshell shades back on his face, his hair perfectly slicked, he unlocks the door and makes his way back into the restaurant.

“Can I help you, sir?” a waiter asks him in accented English.

“ _Tavolo per uno, grazie_ ,” Eggsy says in perfect Italian. The waiter pleasantly converses with him after reverting back to Italian for another minute and seats him near the entrance, at his request. There’s a little stage with a little tent over it set up, and a jazz trio is swinging away, the pitter-patter of rain on the tarp only adding to the rhythm.

He orders a light drink, taking a moment to scan the crowds.

“My guess is he’s meeting up with those mercenaries, or whatever they are,” Minerva comments.

“Probably,” Eggsy replies.

“Galahad, could you place a bug at their table?” Merlin asks.

Eggsy calls over the bewildered waiter and tosses down a couple of bills, wishing him a good day. His specs target the mark in a green halo, while red pinpoints the other mercenaries. The green dot is sitting at a table in a cafe across the square already, by himself, at a table meant for six, but three chairs have been added. The red dots are just appearing, one by one, from all corners of the square.

Eggsy quickly calls for a table at the cafe, and after setting his briefcase down, approaches the mark, a handsome man in his early thirties, dressed to the nines. Stylish, expensive taste, Eggsy notes.

_“Mi scusi, posso prendere questa sedia?”_ he asks, bent and poised to snag one of the chairs. His left hand casually drifts downwards. He attaches a bug on the inside of one of the legs. On second thought…

Another bug is hidden between the meats of his palms, and he slides it out carefully while ripping the first bug off.

“ _No, scusa. Sto aspettando,”_ the mark replies apologetically.

_“Ah, certo, nessun problema,”_ Eggsy replies with an easy smile, moving to another table and grabbing a different chair.

He settles down to wait, ordering a biscuit and a coffee.

Within minutes, the mercenaries arrive, pulling out the chairs and seating themselves. Eggsy has his back to them, but he’s got a partial view from the reflection of a silver napkin holder box and two salt-and-pepper shakers.

“Ah, Pedro. How are you and your Aunt Carlotta?” A man. American-English. He grins, giving the mark- Pedro- a good-natured grin. The two shake hands.  

“I’m great, but Aunt Carlotta has caught influenza,” Pedro says, pulling out a handkerchief and rubbing at his forehead.

Eggsy recognizes the exchange as some sort of passphrase- even from here, he can tell Pedro isn’t actually perspirating.

As soon as Pedro utters the last word, the atmosphere completely changes, confirming Eggsy’s suspicions. The smiles and niceties vanish.

“Ears?” a woman asks.

“Not that I know of,” Pedro answers coolly.

“Not good enough. Search,” she says. Pedro shifts uneasily as the other mercenaries get out of their chairs and crouch on the ground, looking for any devices. A waiter comes by nervously to ask if anything is the matter.

“Lost my diamond earring,” the same woman says. The waiter nods his condolences and leaves a few menus on the table.

One mercenary brushes his hands down the legs of the chair Eggsy put the original bug on.

Thank fuck he changed his mind. Even if the mercenary hadn't found the second one, it wouldn't have been hard for Pedro to recognize who the bugger had been.

The new bug is nestled into the wicker on the back of the chair. To his relief, the man doesn't check there.

Eggsy finishes his coffee and pretends to get a call on his mobile just as the mercenaries are finishing up their search. He pretends to have a one-sided argument in Italian, going something along the lines of ‘what the fuck do you mean you and your sister can't make it?’ and so forth.

Eventually he lets out an exasperated huff of defeat and stuffs his mobile back into his pocket. He can feel the gaze of several mercs on his back. He leaves some more bills on the table and saunters away.

He makes himself comfortable by the docks of the _Laguna Veneta-_ the large body of water separating Venice from the small island of Giudecca. He nabs a bench for himself, and busies himself on his mobile while Merlin diverts the audio from the bug into his specs.

“Do you bring it?”

“Of course.” A loud slurp of coffee.

“Show us.”

“I’d like to see the money, of course.”

The ear-grating scrape of several chairs, and, to Eggsy’s dismay, the click of several safeties.

“Get in there, Galahad,” Merlin says. “Keep civilian casualties to zero.”

More safety clicks. His glasses zoom in, focusing on the restaurant. About a half-dozen more men have appeared. Waiters and other workers, as well as tourists, scatter. Some scream and run- others think it’s a movie shoot. Foolishly, some even begin taking videos. One merc shoots a digital camera right out of a bloke’s hand, and it sends the rest of them running, thankfully.

“Now, my friends,” Pedro continues smoothly. “Let’s have a seat and discuss this in a civilized way, no?”

“We offered a hundred-fifty million,” a woman grits out.

“And we decided a hundred-seventy,” one of Pedro’s men replies.

“We only brought our original offer, you know,” someone pipes up.

“Well, then,” Pedro says with a little sigh, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with the handkerchief and standing up. “If you’ll excuse me, madams and sirs, deal’s off.”

Someone shoots the face of Pedro’s expensive watch. The glass shatters, and the spray leaves little cuts and trails of blood on his hand and forearm. Pedro freezes.

“Merlin, what do I do?” Eggsy hisses.

“You can’t let that transaction happen,” Merlin responds. “But we didn’t expect so many people. The police will be here soon.”

“Shit, should I just shoot them all?” Eggsy asks.

As if in answer, there is the _rat-tat_ of at least half a dozen bullets.

Every merc and guard drops to the ground, dead.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Eggsy exclaims, eyes darting around, stunned.

“Unknown sniper,” Minerva says. “Tracking the location.”

“Galahad, go! Get Pedro!”

Eggsy is already dashing for the shocked man. He grabs him by the lapels, his gun pointed at the man’s forehead.

By now, Merlin’s perfected the hologram from the train test- after Percival and Eggsy mentioned it to him upon their return from Kentucky- and Eggsy can move around with the comfort that his face is utterly unrecognizable.

Today, he is Chinese.

“在哪里?” Eggsy demands. _Where is it?_

“Cosa?” Pedro asks. _What?_

Eggsy switches to stilted English. “Where is it?” he repeats.

“They took it from me,” Pedro says.

“Liar,” Eggsy hisses, digging the barrel deeper into the man’s skull. Pedro shrinks. “I give you three seconds. Three… two… one-”

“Okay, okay,” Pedro cries. “I didn’t even bring it, left it in the jet.”

Eggsy can hear sirens.

So as his specs do a quick scan of Pedro’s clothing and find nothing- not even a weapon, he relents slightly. He wants to find out who the sniper is, but he’s running out of time. So with his gun pointed at the back of Pedro’s head, he shoves the man forward.

“Bring me to it.”

 

When they step into the fancy, private jet, Eggsy is tempted to shoot the pilot.

Because, like, if the pilot’s anything like Merlin, it’s probably a good idea.

But he refrains, and knocks the guy out with an amnesia dart instead. There’s no one else in the plane.

“Get it,” Eggsy says. Pedro’s mouth thins as he hurries over to a hidden compartment at the back of the jet, similar to the weapon’s closet in every Kingsman aerocraft. This thought occurs to Eggsy at the last moment, and he shoots the wall just between the man’s thumb and index fingers just as Pedro reaches up towards the hidden panel’s switch.

_Your weapon skills are excellent, by the way._

By the way his _fucking arse._

“Easy,” Eggsy says. He moves forward, gun trained on Pedro, opening the panel himself.

Indeed, there is a small array of weaponry, but most importantly- in the centre of it all is a single plastic tube filled with a synthetic drug in crystallized form called Y-63.

Eggsy’s seen dimethyltryptamine and scopolamine and some other pretty fucked up shit.

But this thing…

He carefully picks the tube out and secures it into one of the hidden, insulated pockets of his jacket.

“It’s high density polyethylene,” Pedro adds. “The tube, I mean. Pretty indestructible stuff.”

“And why does that matter to me?” Eggsy asks.

Pedro’s solemn expression morphs into one of evil glee.

Eggsy backs up slightly as the door opens and ten armed guards file in.

Eggsy drops his gun, holding his hands behind his head.

“Because you aren’t getting out of here alive,” Pedro says with a shark’s smile. “Even if it means we have to riddle your chest with bullet holes in the letters _fuck you.”_

“That sounds like some Polar Express shit, bruv,” Eggsy mutters, before ripping off the cufflink on his left wrist and lobbing it at the guards. They open fire, but Eggsy just manages to duck behind a seat. Some bullets pepper through, but his bullet-proof suit does the rest of the work.  

The front of the jet explodes in a blast of fiery heat.

Eggsy has the loaded gun hidden in his waistband out in a flash, and he shoots one of the remaining six men in the back of the head. Pedro has taken cover beneath one of the seats, and Eggsy leaves him there. For now.

Five against one.

The odds aren’t looking too swell, but he’s had worse.

Merlin keeps a string of commentary going in his ear, saving his life on more than one occasion as Merlin forces him to go against his instincts once or twice.

The fight is in such close quarters that some of the bullets ricochet. The first that does works to his advantage, ripping through one man’s stomach- enough distraction for Eggsy to put another bullet through his head for his trouble. One bullet, however, hits him square in his left shoulder when he’s got three of the men down.

The two remaining guards manage to get in a few good hits. Eggsy’s pretty sure he’s fractured a rib when one of them kicks him in the chest, sending him flying and crashing into a mahogany table. Just as they come rushing towards him, Eggsy scrabbles for the glass decanter on a tray, smashing it into the man’s face and electrocuting the other with his signet ring.

The last man quickly recovers from his brief encounter with the decanter, and they go at one another for a good three minutes- they’re both strong fighters, but they’re also both weakened and out of ammo.

Finally, finally- Eggsy gets him in what Roxy likes to call a viper blood choke hold- one that they’ve both used a countless number of times. The guard struggles as Eggsy targets his carotid artery, and he loses consciousness within ten seconds.

Panting heavily, he drops the body and surveys the mess.

The adrenaline is pumping through his veins, muting the pain of the various injuries he’s collected.

The plane is still and empty, and the floor is littered with bodies.

_Pedro._

With a sudden surge of uneasiness, the name clicks into mind.

He scrambles over to the seat where the man had been hiding.

The little nook is devoid of the man.  

Just as he’s about to turn around to face the front of the jet, he feels the barrel of a gun being pressed into the back of his head.

_Placement of a bullet anywhere in the cranial vault is sufficient to disrupt both the Medulla Oblongata and the Motor Cortex. With the bullet placed within the CNS target zone, immediate incapacitation will be the likely result._

Merlin’s words from one of his first weapons lessons drifts back to him.

Guns have been put to Eggsy’s head dozens of times.

But he’s always had a final ace up his sleeve.

This time, he finds with no small amount of alarm that he’s used every single weapon and gadget on his body in the fight prior.

“The Y-63,” Pedro whispers, brushing his arm in a lover’s caress. “Give it to me, and I’ll let you go free.”

“Yeah, like fucking shit you will,” Eggsy pants.

“I’ll just get it myself, then,” Pedro shrugs, his fingers trailing Eggsy’s chest sensually. Slowly, the man unbuttons his suit.

Eggsy shudders with disgust.

If this was any other situation…

It isn’t that Pedro wasn’t attractive- in fact, he’s very much so.

But it just isn’t Harry.

Pedro slips his hand into the inside of Eggsy’s jacket, his thumb brushing over his pectorals teasingly as he extracts the little tube. Eggsy shifts, only to have the gun press deeper into his skull. Powerless.

Merlin and Minerva are silent.

“Now, then. Thank you for this,” Pedro says.

“You’re fucking welcome,” Eggsy bites out.

“Tsk. Such a dirty mouth. Shame for you to die like this. Maybe you’ll have better luck in the next life, little spy.”

Eggsy’s heart lurches. Fuck, he’s going to die- _fuck, fuck, fuck_ -

“Merlin-” Eggsy chokes out.

_Bang._

Eggsy’s eyes are squeezed shut.

The pressure of the gun falls away, and he hears the thud of Pedro’s body plummeting to the ground.

Slowly, slowly… he opens his eyes and turns around.

And in front of him, suit perfectly pressed and Oxfords shined to perfection…

Stands no other than Harry Hart.

They stare at one another for a long, tense minute.

Eggsy’s heart is hammering away in his chest, as his eyes sweep from Harry’s toes to his face.

Merlin is silent, which can only mean one thing.

Either he’s dead, or Harry is here for real.

Eggsy decides to go with the latter, and it hits him like a wrecking ball, stealing the air from his lungs.

_Harry is here for real._

There are a million things Eggsy wants- and needs- to say, but all that comes out ends up being-

_Harry is here for_ real. 

“Late again, sir."

“Apologies for my tardiness, Eggsy,” Harry responds after a moment, that perfect mouth breaking into a sly smile. "You look as dashing as ever."

Eggsy's about to retort with _"have you ever looked into a bloody mirror please fuck me right now"_ , but then Eggsy’s body shuts down and his knees buckle. 

The last thing Eggsy remembers is the gentle touch of warm, broad hands, one arm wrapped around his back and one at his knees, and a pair of dark brown eyes burning into his own before the world turns black and he passes out.

And even here, so far away from his family and Kingsman, for the first time in a long while, as Harry presses a single kiss to Eggsy’s brow…

Eggsy feels like he’s finally home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> epilogue possibly in store?? sad egg will be happy??  
> additionally, many apologies about possible translation errors. :'D


End file.
